


lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song

by janie_tangerine



Category: Bastille Day (2016)
Genre: 5 Times, Age Difference, Car Sex, Dancing, Dorks in Love, Fluff and Smut, Karaoke, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Music, Post-Canon, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: five times Michael sings to Sean and once when the reverse happens.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, an anon on tumblr wanted _5 times Michael sings to Sean + 1 time when Sean sings to Michael (bonus points if Michael sings a Britney Spears song at least once)_. I'M COMPLYING. This thing is like... don't look for angst here. Half of it is crack anyway. Also I took the Britney thing seriously. IDEK OKAY. Links to the songs are in each paragraph title - listening is advised if you want to experience this at the fullest.
> 
> Other than that: these two dorks don't belong to me, this movie is still too underrated, the songs belong to their respective authors when they're still alive, the title is from the Beatles and YES there had to be the obligatory token Springsteen song.

1\.   _[ **hit me baby, one more time**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-u5WLJ9Yk4)_  


“No fucking way,” Briar says the moment he realizes _what_ kind of bar is it that their mark likes to frequent.

“ _Way_ ,” Mason snorts. “Come on, there’s nothing wrong with karaoke.”

“ _Everything_ is wrong with karaoke,” Briar replies at once – he had pegged the guy for a fucking idiot from the first briefing and now he’s just sure of it.

Someone needs to explain him how his life turned into partnering up with a former fucking con artist who’s still on probation while running after some FBI fucker gone rogue who’s currently hiding out in London and making money out of human trafficking organizations. As in, helping them smuggle people into the US. Also _this_ did not need the mission which decides whether Mason stops being on probation and gets a job or whether he stops being on probation and goes back to Paris.

Also, how can a _rogue FBI_ be so stupid to hang around karaoke bars?

“You just don’t know how to have any fun,” Mason replies, looking entirely too smug for his liking. “What, you don’t sing?”

“Are you feeling suicidal today?”

“Explains the _joie de vivre_ one feels around you. Well, let’s get in and see how it is, shall we?”

Briar shrugs and goes in, because they have to make contact with the asshole  _somehow_ , and might as well be here.

The first thing he notices is some fourteen-year old girl butchering _Eleanor Rigby_ – great, his ears are bleeding already.

The second is their guy sitting in first row and clapping loudly – fuck’s sake.

The third is a flier on the back of the door informing them that this is actually some kind of fucking _contest_ where the two people who get more cheers from the crowd end up singing _duets_.

Mason is reading it with great interest.

“Huh,” he says, “well, if you don’t _sing,_ I guess I’ll take one for the team.”

“ _What_?”

“You wanna make contact? I have the _perfect_ plan for that.”

Then the motherfucker _winks_ at him and goes up to the bartender and asks if there’s still room to sign up. The guy looks at Mason and says that they still have ten contestants so as long as he doesn’t mind going last…

“Chill,” Mason says as he sits down at the table Briar’s occupied, “I got this.”

“And _how_ exactly?”

Mason nods towards their guy, who’s now going up on stage and launching in some horrid pop band music that Briar doesn’t even want to know about.

“Most people in here are teenagers,” Mason whispers, “and _he_ is just slightly older, handsome enough and –” He stops, listening to the first few lines. “And not entirely off-key. My money’s that he ends up being half of that duet.”

“So?”

“So I just have to be the other half,” Mason smirks. “And then we’d both get free drinks and I can chat him up, never mind that if I get to be on stage with him I have reasons to get _close_ , you know what I mean.”

 _And see if there’s anything valuable in his wallet,_ Briar doesn’t say.

He wants to say it’s a dumb idea.

Fact is, it’s _not_.

“Fine,” Briar sighs, “go ahead.”

“Nice. You’re not gonna regret it, boss.”

“I think I will, but we’ll see.”

Mason smirks again – he needs to stop, he’s _not legal_ – and goes to pick a song or whatever it is you do with the person in charge of the music.

Turns out Mason’s right for the first half of it – their mark gets the crowd worked up. And the next eight people are all teenagers who can barely carry a tune. By the time Mason’s walking on the bar’s stage it’s obvious that one half of the winning team is decided.

Briar just hopes Mason picked something innocuous.

Then he hears the beginning of it and can barely keep in a groan of frustration.

That _fucker_.

No man should ever sing Britney Spears in public, Briar thinks as Mason winks at some girl in the audience and then starts singing.

_Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know that something wasn’t right there?_

And thing is – he’s not reading the words, so he’s not even pretending he  _doesn’t_ know that by heart, but guy’s actually not _bad_. He can carry a tune. He can definitely sing halfway decently. And since he’s attractive a bunch of girls are already sort of swooning.

Briar’s not paid enough for this, he thinks as he looks up at the stage, and then Mason _looks straight at him_ , what the fuck, and –

_Show me, how do you want it to be, show me baby, ‘cause I need to know, because –_

What the fuck?

_My loneliness is killing me, but I must confess I still believe, when I’m not with you I lose my mind, give me a sign –_

He’s not looking at him right now, thank fuck, but then he _does_ and –

 _Hit me baby one more time_ , he sings looking _straight at fucking Briar_ , and it’s everyone’s luck that you just have to sing up to the second refrain, because the last thing he needed this evening was Mason looking straight at him while singing _the reason I breathe is you, boy you got me blinded._

Christ. Obviously Mason passes the first round, and Briar thinks that the sooner he forgets about him and the guy they’re supposed to arrest singing _Under Pressure_ together the better, but thing is, Mason actually _does_ chat the guy up, and by the time he’s left and Mason sits back down at their table, he looks downright smug, and more than a bit buzzed, but the free drinks weren’t light, from what Briar noticed.

“So,” Mason says, “what do you say about _this_?”

And then he slips over a thin book full of names and numbers – someone in this day and age still _writes the contacts down_? –, a thin piece of paper with the name of a street and a time and an obviously fake ID card with what looks like a working address.

“Not bad,” he admits, and Mason pretty much beams at him. Damn it. _Illegal_. “Also, what was that stunt?”

“As in?”

“Come on, cut the bullshit. You were looking at _me_ in a few key points, last I checked,” Briar sighs.  
  
“Oh, _that_. Well,” Mason says, his voice dropping down a couple of octaves all of a sudden, “maybe there’s a reason why you’re good at your job. I mean, if you didn’t even notice _that_ I’d think you were stealing your paycheck.”

“What –”

“On the other side, you can be _remarkably_ dense when it comes to a few things.”

Briar would like to know if he’s being this chatty because he’s at least somehow buzzed or if he was planning it, but if he’s understood right…

“Like?” Briar asks cautiously.

“Like, _I must confess that my loneliness is killing me now_ –” He starts, thankfully keeping his voice low.

“ _Stop_ , Christ,” Briar cuts him off. “If you’re implying what I think you are, you’re going to have to do better than _Britney_. Shit. _Britney_. How do you genuinely like that shit?”

“Aw, but should I pretend to be someone I’m _not_ just because you can’t appreciate good pop music?”

Briar doesn’t want to take the bait and so he doesn’t, and instead he just looks at the man, taking a deep breath and asking _the_ question.

“So what exactly it is that you want from me?”

Mason finishes the glass he had in front of him.

Then.

He _winks_ as he moves slightly forward, and –

“When we’re done with _this_ mess,” he starts, and then his tone goes down enough that no one else could hear them, “… _hit me baby, one more time_?”

Briar’s throat goes absolutely _dry_ at that.

He drinks the rest of his drink in one go and mutters something about _let’s discuss it when we’re done with this mess_.

When they are, in fact, done, he tells himself that he slams Mason against their hotel room’s wall and proceeds to give him the kind of bruising kiss he’ll remember for life out of frustration.

It doesn’t sound like a really convincing lie even as he repeats it to himself when they’re done and there’s a few bruises on Mason’s side that testify how the whole _hit me baby one more time_ deal was taken seriously.

It doesn’t mean he won’t hold on to it as much as he can handle.  


2\. _**[bright city light’s gonna set my soul on fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzht1l3UkKE)**_

  
  
Obviously, their London mission going swimmingly (Briar takes care to omit _any_ mention of Britney or karaoke on any report) means Mason is not on probation anymore and Briar is promoted as his _official handler_ since it’s obvious that together they _accomplish_ things, or so Tom had told him with a certain distaste.

Then he gets the next assignment.

A money laundering ring to dismantle in _Las Vegas_.

 _A needle in a haystack_ , Briar thinks helplessly, but he’s never refused an assignment and he’s not going to be picky now.

He doesn’t know what he expects out of Mason – given that it’d mean going back to his hometown among other things. Mason takes the file, gives it a look and shuts it closed.

“Well, ‘course they’d give this to _us_ ,” he says.

“And why’s that?”

“I might have robbed a few of the people mentioned in this file,” he replies with entirely too much satisfaction.

Briar doesn’t ask for details.

Then it turns out that _in theory_ all flights in the next three days for McCarran are full, and HQ obviously decides that it’s urgent but they might as well land somewhere else. So they end up on a flight to Reno and their plane lands at Reno-Tahoe three days later and of course it’s around nine PM when in France it’s – six in the morning? Yeah. Right. Jet lag never stopped him from doing his job and he won’t start now. There’s a car already booked for them at the rental area – he tunes off Mason’s chattering until they actually are on it and he goes behind the driving wheel. The kid’s probably just talking his head off so that he doesn’t fall asleep, Briar decides. He drives out of the airport – it’s some seven hours to Vegas, he thinks.

Couldn’t HQ have found them tickets so that they’d be in Vegas in the evening and they could have slept it off?

“Wow, man,” Mason says as Briar drives out in the freeway, “did anything happen during that flight to make you that much grumpier than usual?”

“What? _No_! I just looked at the file and did some work. _Nothing_ happened.”

“If you say so,” Mason replies, looking absolutely unfazed.

Nothing happens for the next hour or so, when they’re somewhere near Fernley and he closes his eyes for _one_ damned moment –

“Fuck, _stop the damned car_!”

His eyes shoot open at once and he realizes that Mason has a hand on his arm and one on the wheel, that they’re in a somehow diagonal position on the side of the freeway and that he was about to go straight into the fucking desert.

“What the hell –”

Mason sighs. “You’re jetlagged.”

“I’m _not_ –”

“Fuck’s sake, you just fell asleep on the wheel and it’s another _six hours_ before we even see Vegas on the horizon line. Come on, I’m driving.”

“Like _hell_ –”

“Differently from _you_ , I bought melatonin and I slept on the damned plane, which means I’m very well rested. Never mind that I lived in Vegas most of my life, you think I can’t handle staying awake longer than sixteen hours? Please. Just let me drive before you crash us.”

Any other day Briar would have soldiered on. But he’s _really_ tired and for once Mason is making sense entirely, so he relents, turns off the engine and gets out of the door, switching places. It says all that the moment Mason puts the car back on the road, turns on the radio at a low volume and starts driving, he closes his eyes and passes out at once.

It’s the best kind of dreamless sleep and he doesn’t know how long it lasts – he just knows that at one point he was blessedly resting (this car isn’t even _that_ uncomfortable) and the other –

Well, the volume of the radio has apparently gone from low to _hella fucking high_ , and Mason is –

“ _Bright light city gonna set my soul, set my soul on fire, got a whole lot of money that’s ready to burn, so get those stakes up higher…_ ”

Shit. That’s Mason _singing at the top of his lungs_? Briar blinks once, twice, thrice and then groans as he wakes up for good.

“The hell,” he mutters.

“Hey,” Mason replies, looking like he’s having the time of his life as he speeds forward. “Congratulations, you were out for… six hours? Seven? I don’t even know. Anyway, we’re almost there and so I thought I’d put on some classics. There’s a station always airing good stuff _._ ”

“The _good stuff_?”

“ _How I wish that there was more than twenty-four hours in the day, ‘cause even if there were forty more I wouldn’t sleep a minute away_ –” Mason keeps on, going along with Elvis on the radio.

“Mason!”

“Hey, Britney wasn’t good enough for you and I can respect it, but _Elvis_? C’mon, Elvis is _classic_. Also, look ahead and tell me that it’s not _appropriate_.”

Briar does, and –

“ _Viva Las Vegas with you neon flashin’ and your one armbandits crashin’ all those hopes down the drain_ …” Mason keeps on as he drives down the highway. They’re on the top of one hill near enough that you can see the city below you in all of its _neon flashin’_ but far enough that they’ll need at least another hour to even get in. “ _Viva Las Vegas turnin’ day into nighttime, turnin’ night into daytime, if you see it once… you’ll never be the same again!_ ”

The fact that Mason _can actually sing_ isn’t doing anything to make this situation any better, because Briar would honestly like some silence but if he was off-key at least he’d have an excuse to tell him to stop. Like this – the kid looks like he’s having _fun_ , damn it, and he did drive seven hours without waking him up or crashing the car, and –

Christ, Briar needs to get a handle on this shit, damn it.

Then Mason lowers the windowsills and pushes on the accelerator as the song goes into the last stretch. “ _I’m gonna keep on the run, I’m gonna have me some fun, if it costs me my very last dime… If I wind up broke, well, I’ll always remember that I had a swingin’ time_ ,” he goes on. “Come on, you should join.”

“ _What_? I don’t sing.”

“Too bad. _I’m gonna give it everything I’ve got, lady luck please let the dice stay hot, let me shout a seven with every shout…_ come on?”

“ _No_!”

“Too bad. _Viva Las Vegas, viva Las Vegas, viva, viva Las Vegas_!”

“You’re an idiot,” Briar says without too much emphasis as Elvis stops singing and some advertising takes his place.

“Hey, that song is basically everything you need to know about Vegas, don’t be like that. Also Britney is trash, Elvis isn’t good enough for your tastes, what it is that you actually like?”

Briar can’t help the snort that leaves his mouth traitorously. “Let’s say that if you stick around long enough you might find out,” he says, with a very deliberate choice of words.

Mason glances at him before looking back at the road. He’s smirking to himself.

“I can bet on that, and us from Vegas take betting _very_ seriously,” Mason replies, and then drives forward.

Briar does _not_ tell him, _I hope you do_.

There’s a limit to everything.  


3\. _**[‘cause when we kiss, fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5PoIrcyd34)**_

  
  
“This is a bust,” Briar finally admits.

“Wait, we’ve been standing in this car for _four hours_ freezing our asses of in the middle of some field in Normandy _in January_ because you were _sure_ our weapon smugglers were going to take this road and now you tell me it’s a bust?”

“Hey, I didn’t provide the intel! Everything pointed to _here_ , but they should have passed by some two hours ago. I don’t call thing busts if I’m not sure. We can still catch them in Le Havre tomorrow.”

“I’m fucking _freezing_!”

“You’ve gone through worse.”

“That’s not the fucking point and given that we could have gone to Le Havre  _yesterday_ –”

“You’ll go through worse if you stay in this line of work,” Briar keeps on. It’s honestly amusing that Mason is getting so worked up about this but busts happen. At some point he’s going to have to get used to it.

“Fine,” Mason agrees, “but then I want compensation.”

“You want _what_?”

Mason grins and puts a hand on Briar’s leg.

Oh, _no_.

“Hell, no,” Briar says at once.

“And why’s that?”

“We’re _working_.”

“And this is a bust.”

“We need to get to Le Havre!”

“It’s two hours’ driving at worst and the exchange is _tomorrow evening_.”

“Forget it, we can’t –”

“Do you know what I think?” Mason says, smirking all over again, and damn, that face should be illegal. There’s no way _anyone_ should be allowed to pull off that kind of expression when they’re _that_ attractive. That’s fucking unfair.

“What do you _think_ , if you ever do it?”

Mason clears his throat. “ _You say you don’t like it_ ,” he starts singing, and _what the hell is this_? Briar doesn’t know what is Mason even trying to sing, but then he can’t go and ask because Mason has taken advantage of the car’s sized and climbed over the passenger seat. And now he has his legs around Briar’s thighs.

What the –

“ _But man, I know you’re a liar,_ ” he goes on, “ _’cause when we kiss, ooh, fire_ ,” he sings with always that damned smirk on his face, and then he leans down and his mouth meets Briar’s for a couple teasing moments before he moves back.

The hell he’s even –

“ _Late at night, I’m takin’ you home…_ ”

“I don’t know what you’re up to but you’re _not_ taking me anywhere –” Briar starts, and then a couple of fingers are on his mouth.

“ _I say I wanna stay, you say you wanna be alone, you say you don’t love me, but man you can’t hide your desire_ ,” Mason keeps on, and then one of his hands goes to Briar’s belt and brushes right against his crotch and _damn it_ , how can’t a sensible human being with a libido _not_ being bothered in that kind of situation?

Mason just smirks wider.

“ _’Cause when we kiss, oh,_ fire _,”_ and then he leans back down and kisses him while his hand palms his cock through Briar’s jeans and _damn it_ , this is so going to end in a fairly embarrassing way if he doesn’t stop, and why does that song actually have a _nice_ rhythm to it?

His hands are going to Mason’s hips – to stop him or to press him forward, he still doesn’t know – when the kiss breaks and Mason leans back, except that his hands are still on his belt, working it open. And then –

“ _You had a hold on me right from the start_ ,” he sings as his fingers make quick work of the belt’s buckle. “ _A grip so tight I couldn’t tear it apart, my nerves all jumpin’, actin’ like a fool_ –”

“Actually that’s true,” Briar interrupts. “We’re being idiots. You’re being an idiot. We should go back –”

“Hm, _well, your kisses they burn, but your heart… stays… cool_ ,” Mason goes on, absolutely ignoring him and throwing the belt behind the seat. He’s not doing anything now, though. Just looking at him from under those eyelashes, with those blue eyes which are seriously going to be the death of him if it goes on like this –

“ _Romeo and Juliet, Samson and Delilah, baby you can bet, their love they didn’t deny_ ,” and _what the fuck is he harping about_ , “ _your words say split, but your words, they lie_ ,” Mason says leaning down. “’ _Cause when we kiss_ –” He says, and he’s _so close_ that Briar would and could kiss him if he moved even just an inch –

Fuck this noise, he decides as he feels Mason’s erection pressing against his leg, this is undignified and sex in _cars_ is absolutely not professional, but there’s a limit to what a man can stand.

He grabs the back of Michael’s head and drags him in, kissing him _fucking properly_ , and never mind that the word he never lets him sing was probably _fire_.

It would have been a fairly adequate description, though.

–

“What was that song even?” He asks one hour later, as they’re driving back to Le Havre. Mason’s shirt is all buttoned wrong and the car smells of sex. He hopes he’ll have time to make sure it doesn’t before he has to hand it back in to HQ.

“I have to deduce that Springsteen isn’t the kind of music you like, is it?”

“Not really my genre,” Briar agrees, “but in comparison to what I’ve heard from you until now, not half bad.”

No one should be grinning _that_ hard after that line, Briar decides.

He decides to _not_ take into consideration what it might mean when coming from Michael Mason out of everyone and drives forward.

  
4. _ **[and if you say the word, I could stay with you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAzaOZfgf0M)**_

  
It’s been a year since the Britney fiasco.

Briar has asked for a week of leave because _sometimes_ he should maybe go back home and see his mother, and he’s going alone because his _sidekick_ , as Tom calls Michael by this point, hasn’t worked for them enough to ask for leave and anyway he has a few evaluation tests to go through. Michael hadn’t protested and said that a week of relieve from Briar’s face might not have been that bad.

Briar is on the plane, sort of dozing, when he realizes three things at once.

First: he has stopped referring to the kid by _Mason_ for enough time that – well, he barely refers to _anyone_ by their first names. For reasons.

Second: they’ve been – doing whatever it is that they’re doing for a full year. Briar’s fairly sure he has _never_ screwed the same person for one year. He knows enough about Michael to be sure that he hasn’t either.

Third: Briar has fourteen years on him.

He spends the rest of the airplane ride thinking _what the fuck are we even doing_. He doesn’t do _relationships_ , sure as fuck he doesn’t do them with twenty-six year olds with abandonment issues who could and should probably aim at someone their age and who Briar does _not_ call by name –

Except that he does.

Apparently he fucking does.

And it’s just – no. He’s not – he doesn’t _do_ this. Never mind that for now it might work, but what happens when Michael is thirty and he’s _forty-four_? If they even last that long?

Hours later, his brother asks him if he’s finally hitting mid-life crisis. Briar tells him to fuck off. When his _mother_ , damn it, asks him what it is that is worrying him that much, he says it’s nothing and it’s just tired. His father doesn’t look too convinced.

Then Briar’s little niece asks him if he looks this distracted because he has finally found a _girlfriend_. He denies it with maybe too much conviction.

Obviously it means that _everyone_ decides she had a point.

Briar solves the problem by drinking a lot more whiskey than he should have, which then results in him sending Michael a text absolutely _unworthy_ of him, and rather undignified, before passing out in a dreamless sleep just after kicking off his shoes.

The next morning, he has the mother of hangovers, his clothes feel dirty and uncomfortable – well, he fucking _slept in them_ after a seven-hour trip – his mouth tastes foul, his head is pounding and his phone is beeping with notifications he hasn’t heard because he was too busy being passed out.

Christ, if only his superiors knew no one would take him seriously anymore.

He checks the notifications. He has _five_ missed calls from Michael, three texts and – an email?

He opens the texts.

 _The hell, are you drunk?_ , reads the first.

Briar looks at the text _he_ actually sent last evening.

If Michael actually made sense of that, typos included, the kid has a lot more potential breaking ciphers than as a field agent, Briar decides.

_Okay, you haven’t replied for an hour, you definitely were drunk._

_I think I got it. You’re a fucking idiot_.

What the hell.

He opens the e-mail – it’s from Michael. There’s a _video_ attached to it.

 _If I understood right what you were badly trying to say yesterday, then I have an answer. Watch that. By the way: you’re an idiot_.

Briar shrugs and opens the video – at this point he might as well go on with it.

He’s _not_ surprised when it shows Michael’s face up close and then he moves back to show that he’s sitting on Briar’s own sofa in Paris. In theory he shouldn’t have the keys but the both of them know he does.

“So,” Michael starts, and shit, what’s his business walking around with bare feet in January? “I’ll admit it, it took me a full fucking hour to even grasp what the hell you were trying to say. I mean, who knew you got chatty when drunk, but three letters in the right place in every word is a bit tiring. Anyway, I _think_ I got it. And if the point is that you’re suddenly worrying that you’re _too_ _old for me_ or something then you’re a fucking idiot. Did I say it already? Anyway, since if I just  _say_ it you won’t get it, let me make it very clear.” Then he smirks and goes up to Briar’s record player.

“Now, I also found out that you own a record player but _no records_ , so either they’re hidden or you have serious issues, but anyway, I suppose that _this_ isn’t what you like, still. Whatever. No problem, I had it.” He grabs a bag, takes out a CD and puts it in. He chooses the song, presses play, and –

The music is vaguely familiar. Means that it’s something his father likes, probably. But he can’t recognize the song. Not that he can even attempt to recognize the singer, not when Michael starts singing over them the moment words come into play. And –

“ _When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now, will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottles of wine?_ ”

And then he produces a piece of paper from his pocket. It reads _not that you do that in the first place, but that’s the principle of it_.

“ _If I’d been out ‘till quarter to three, would you lock the door?_ ”

 _You’d get in anyway_ , Briar thinks… fondly? Damn it. He’s really not in his right mind here –

“ _Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four_?”

Oh, _shit_. Of course he remembers it, his father _is_ into the Beatles. A _lot_. Before Briar can ponder it further though, Michael smirks and keeps on singing the damned thing.

“ _You’ll be older, too… and if you say the word, I could stay with you_ ,” he sings, staring straight into the camera.

 _What_ –

“ _I could be handy, mending a fuse when your lights have gone, you can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings go for a ride! Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four_?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake –

“ _Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight, if it’s not too dear… we shall scrimp and save! Grandchildren on your knee, Vera, Chuck and Dave._ ” He’s downright _smirking_ now. As if _they_ would have grandchildren, Briar thinks, but then the smirk turns into an actual genuine smile and –

“ _Send me a postcard, drop me a line, stating point of view, indicate precisely what you mean to say, yours sincerely, wasting away, give me your answer, fill in a form, mine for evermore, will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four_?”

And then the bastard _winks_ and the video is over.

Briar stares at his phone’s screen for the next thirty minutes.

“I guess Kima wasn’t _all_ wrong when she said your problem was a _girlfriend_?”

Briar almost drops the phone the moment he hears his father, who’s standing _right behind him_ fuck’s sake, and who probably… saw the entire thing.

“Maybe,” he concedes, trying to regain some dignity.

His father stares at him, then at the phone, then he shrugs. “Seems to me that young as your _not-girlfriend_ is, he has more sense than you. Sean, your mother is _fifteen_ years younger than I am, was that ever a problem?”

“Uh, no,” he admits, slowly.

“Good. Then stop being an idiot. If you – by some miracle – ran into someone who actually can handle you, I’d say stick with them. Never mind that he might be a bit on the young side, but at least it seems like he’s better than his generation when it comes to music tastes.”

Briar does _not_ reply, _actually he knows every Britney song in existence by heart_.

“I guess so,” he finally replies.

“Good. Get downstairs when you think you can handle standing up.”

All things considered, he doesn’t think he can do that very soon. In between his father having not had _one_ single problem with his _not-girlfriend_ being a guy and taking it that nonchalantly, that video having left him very much speechless for the first time in who knows how long and his raging headache, he might want to take it easy.

Still –

He watches the video again.

 _And if you say the word, I could stay with you_.

He will most probably regret this when he’s sober.

He opens his texts, hits _reply_ to the last one Michael sent him, thinks about it for a moment, and then –

 _Yes_ , he types.

Then he’s about to press send, but…

Not yet. He smirks as he leaves a few lines of space between _yes_ and the rest.

_By the way, the Beatles are not bad, but that’s not my jam either._

He sends the message.

When he goes downstairs and his brother asks him _man, you look actually happy, are you sick_?, Briar ignores him.

He’s entirely not surprised that when he checks his phone again there’s another video in his e-mail. It’s basically Michael making himself dinner in Briar’s kitchen while singing _Can’t Buy Me Love._

Briar isn’t even surprised when his mother catches him looking at it and declares it adorable.

Fuck his life. Or maybe not so much.  
  


5\. _**[do you love me?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRDo50IUcxw)**_

  
Briar isn’t ever going to tell Michael out loud, but – he might have gotten adjusted to partnering with someone.

Or at least, it has to be that, because this is the first solo mission he’s done in a year and a half and he’s coming back home a _lot_ more tired than he can ever remember. Either he’s getting old or he’s getting adjusted and maybe there’s a reason why people like _partnering_.

Christ. He’s honestly looking forward to crashing on his bed and the prospect of someone already being there to share it isn’t as daunting as it might have been a while ago, damn it, he’s getting _old_ or soft or _whatever_ , and it’s with that frame of mind that he opens the door to his apartment, figuring that Michael is probably in there. Anyone else would have stopped pretending he didn’t live here and would have moved in already, but the idiot can’t apparently still let go of that crappy attic he’s still renting. Whatever – most probably he’s not there in the first place.

He gets a confirm the moment he walks in – there’s music coming in from the kitchen, some song ending and moving into another. Given that the volume turns up a _lot_ a moment later, he figures it has to be something Michael likes – he hopes it’s not Britney, really –

 _You broke my heart, ‘cause I couldn’t dance, you didn’t even want me around_ , he hears Michael singing over the music. Oh. Okay. _Definitely_ not Britney.

 _But now I’m back to let you know… I can really shake ‘em down_.

Briar swallows as he moves to the kitchen and –

“ _Do you love me?_ ” Shit, does he ever sing this loud when Briar’s not around? Not that he remembers. “ _I can really move, do you love me? I’m in the groove, do you love me… now that I can dance_?” And Michael’s actually swaying his hips to the rhythm, which is _not_ helping here because he’s wearing tight jeans that leave no imagination about his legs _or_ his ass, never mind the white t-shirt that he managed to stain with sauce _on the back_.

“You can’t dance for shit,” Briar says coming in and dumping his jacket on the chair.

That probably wasn’t the right thing to say, because Michael turns the fire on the stove really low and then turns to look at him. He’s… grinning? Briar doesn’t like the way he’s focusing on him.

“ _Hm, watch me now, work it out baby…_ ” He goes on along with the music and coming closer.

“Oh, _no._ ”

“ _Well, I’m gonna drive you crazy, just a little bit of soul now?_ ”

“Like _hell_ –”

“ _Now I can mash potatoes_ ,” he goes on, and wait a moment he still has a spoon in his hand, the one he was using to stir whatever was inside the pot, and _it actually smells of potatoes_? What the hell –

“ _I can do the twist, tell me baby, do you like it like this?_ ”

He drops the spoon on the counter and –

“You can forget it,” Briar goes on.

The bastard just looks up at him with the face of someone who knows they won this particular battle. “ _Do you love me_?” He goes on, pressing up against Briar, who is now trapped in between Michael and the door. Damn –

“ _Do you love me baby, now do you love me, now that I can dance_?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Briar sighs, but doesn’t do anything to get out of it when Michael’s hands grip at his side and bring him forward – good thing there isn’t a table in the kitchen.

“ _Come on, I’m gonna drive you crazy_ –”

“Fuck knows you will –”

“ _I can mash potatoes, I can do the twist, now tell me baby, do you like it like this_?” He says, as he pretty much forces Briar to spin him in the middle of the room – and shit, in between _that_ and the music being unfairly catchy Briar’s actually going along with it before his dignity can protest. It’s ridiculous. _He_ dances better than Michael, fuck’s sake, if he puts his mind to it, and this is too embarrassing for words, but then again –

Maybe that’s what you get into when your _not girlfriend_ is pushing twenty-seven and apparently thinks that spontaneous dancing in the kitchen is a _thing_ he wants to do.

“Fuck that, maybe I don’t dislike it, but you still can’t dance for shit. You’re  _definitely_ going to drive me crazy, though.”

Michael grins as they spin around the kitchen. “Who said it wasn’t deliberate? _Work it out, baby_.”

“Yeah, and by the way, this is closer, but they ain’t my kinda thing either. Not exactly.”

“I’ll find out one day,” Michael says, “I have _a lot_ of time, I think. _Hm, do you love me_?”

“Oh, shut up,” Briar sighs as he drags him closer and waits for the song to be over.

As if he’s fooling anyone here.

Given how Michael’s looking at him, he’s not doing a very good job of it.

  
+

  
6\. **_[boom, boom, boom, boom, I’m gonna shoot you right down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X70VMrH3yBg)_**

  
“You know,” Michael says as Briar comes out of the shower of their shared room – at least _this_ mission had the four-star hotel perk, and patience if Michael is utterly ignoring that it has two queen-sized beds –, “locking up the cupboard  _just under your bookshelves_ when you have someone in my previous line of work sharing your quarters means that at some point that lock is gonna get broken in.”

The cupboard –

 _Ah_. That cupboard.

“And what did you find?” Briar sighs, already knowing the answer.

“Well, that I should have seen it coming a mile away,” Michael replies, and he has no right to look that smug as he lies down on _Briar_ ’s bed with just his jeans on. “I mean, given how you’re _not_ the life of the party at any point it’d make sense you’d like _blues_ music.”

“You’re _hilarious_ ,” Briar sighs, tightening the towel around his waist. He can see Michael staring downwards, not that he hadn’t expected it. “Also blues music is not all _sad_. Stop with assuming things.”

“Really. Prove me wrong.”

Bastard probably already knows that perfectly. Still, he _did_ put a lot of effort into it. And maybe –

Maybe it’s high time Briar takes his little vengeance. After all, he doesn’t sing because it’s _ridiculous_ and he’s a highly skilled and trained CIA agent with no time for bullshit, not because he _can’t_.

“Well,” he says, “no one ever said blues music was all about feeling _down_.”

He glances down at Michael, who’s still lying down on the bed as if he owns it.

“Actually, sometimes it’s _all the contrary_.” He contemplates throwing away the towel, then he decides that he will. Just not now.

He actually _does_ consider what he should go for. Then again, he doesn’t have to think too hard about it – he has just the perfect song to prove his point.

“I’m waiting,” Michael says, and he hasn’t moved an inch.

_Nice._

Briar clears his throat, taking a moment to remember how the beat went.

Then he grins as he kneels down on the bed. Slow. Rushing it would be a pity at this point.

“Boom, boom, boom, boom,” he starts, staring straight at Michael, “ _I’m gonna shoot you right down_ , right off your feet, take you home with me, _put you in my house_ …” He reaches out, grasping Michael’s wrist – Michael doesn’t stop him at all – and well, _damn_ , that’s a fairly quick pulse, isn’t it? “… _boom, boom, boom, boom_.”

At that he can see Michael openly swallowing, never mind that his cheeks have gotten redder.

He smirks and moves so that he has his knees around Michael’s thighs – the towel falls off, but at this point it’s hardly a problem.

“I _love_ to see you strout,” he hums on, his hands going to Michael’s jeans – he works them open in a moment and he’s not too surprised to see that he’s gone commando, not that he he complains. Not at all. “Up and down the floor, when you’re talking to me, when you talk that talk, _I like it like that_ ,” he sings on, and shit he can see that Michael is very, very much bothered.

He smirks and doesn’t waste a moment – he reaches down, one hand on Michael’s hip and one on his cock, and he gives a long, slow stroke.

“When you walk that walk,” he goes on, and maybe trying to go along with the rhythm might need some work but given how Michael moans the moment he does, he decides that it’s going to work. “And you talk that talk, and whisper in my ear…” He stops for a moment before moving with his lips just in _that_ position. “ _Tell me that you love me_ , I love that talk,” he starts again, and he can see Michael’s pupils get slightly wider and darker.

 _Good_. Because now’s the time for the best part of it, if you ask him.

“When you talk like that, _you knock me out_ , right off my feet…”

For a moment he thinks Michael’s eyes have turned a darker shade of blue, or maybe it’s that he looks… surprised?

“Wait, really?” He blurts out, with the face of someone who hopes the answer is _yes_ –

Briar smirks.

“Talk that talk, and _walk that walk_ … _you knock me out_ ,” he sings, and he knows he’s grinning maybe too much, but the way Michael’s looking at him is just – he doesn’t think anyone’s ever stared at him quite like _that_ , never mind while fucking, fuck’s sake, even if at this point it’s probably not fucking anymore, and –

Maybe he can just go the whole way with it.

“Boom, boom, boom, boom,” he goes on again, and he doesn’t know how Michael _still_ hasn’t come even if he’s obviously about to. “Gonna shoot you right now, take you in my arms, _I’m in love with you,_ a love that is true… boom, boom, boom, _boom_ ,” he sings, and at that Michael _moans_ in a way that almost makes _him_ come untouched, damn it. But he has a point to make here, and he’s going to finish before he gets down to business for real.

“I need you right now, I mean _right now_ , I don’t mean tomorrow, I mean _right now_ , come on, come on… _shake it up, baby_ ,” he finishes, right against Michael’s ear, and for a moment Michael goes still before he moans again just as Briar’s mouth meets his own and he comes against his hand, his hands grabbing at the headboard – shit, he _really_ hasn’t moved an inch throughout this, has he?

He’s half in mind of reaching down for his discarded bag where he thinks he  _might_ have some condoms or some lube or both, but then he backs away for a moment and he looks down at Michael, who’s staring up at him with those blown pupils and eyes so blue, they’re _definitely_ a shade darker now or so it seems, and he has the face of someone who’s just been split open in all the best ways and he’s smiling but it’s not a _smirk_. It’s so _genuinely happy_ Briar is taken aback for a moment and thinks _what do I even have here,_ and then decides that grabbing his jacket would be too much time – he reaches down, pins Michael’s hands against the headboard and moves up so that he can find some friction against Michael’s leg, and patience if dry humping is _really_ something that should be long behind him (they’re not _teenagers_ , fuck’s sake). He’s so close and so aching for release that it doesn’t even take that long – the moment Michael’s hips cant upwards to meet his thrusts it’s really a matter of little time and he’s coming after not long, against Michael’s thigh while his hands are still pinning him down and Michael’s moaning so openly it’s going to be a miracle if no one protests, unless they don’t have anyone in the next room over.

Not that Briar gives two fucks.

He takes a few deep breaths when he knows he’s done, but doesn’t move entirely. Not just now. He lets Michael’s wrists go, and he can’t help smirking when he sees that Michael just lets his arms fall down to the pillow but otherwise doesn’t try to reach up or touch – not yet, at least.

He cleans them both up with his discarded towel, not that it’s going to help much – they definitely need a shower, but not just now.

Then he lets himself drop to the free side of the bed, his hand moving away a few strands of hair sticking to Michael’s forehead.

“And if it wasn’t obvious,” he mutters, “ _yes_ , really. And this is the first and last time I do this. Clear?”

He’ll be damned if Michael isn’t _gloating_ the moment he says it.

“Sure,” he slurs, “I _totally_ believe it.”

Fuck him, he’s probably right, Briar thinks, but he’s not going to tell him out loud. There’s a limit to everything.

That said, he thinks as he tries to get the two of them under the covers without needing to stand up, if that’s how it’s going to be if he sometimes forgets about being dignified… well, now that might be entirely worth it, after all.

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> songs featured:
> 
> \- baby one more time, britney spears;  
> \- viva las vegas, elvis presley;  
> \- fire, bruce springsteen;  
> \- when I'm sixty-four, the beatles;  
> \- do you love me?, the contours;  
> \- boom boom, john lee hooker;
> 
> For anyone extra interested: the version of _Boom Boom_ Briar's singing at the end is mostly the original version but the last part is technically just in the Animals cover - still it was good for my purposes, so I figured I'd sneak that in too.


End file.
